


Forecasting Weather

by keiliss



Series: Gifties: Christmas 2016 [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Meetings, Nevrast, Stormy Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9089407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/pseuds/keiliss
Summary: IgBard asked for:  Erestor/Glorfindel: winter in Nevrast





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IgnobleBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnobleBard/gifts).



> I offered to write Christmas gifts this year, which were due on Christmas Day but most grew way past their expected (under 700 word) length so one a day till Twelfth Night works better.
> 
> Not one thing has turned out as planned this year, why did I expect this to? *g*

Winter in Nevrast had been a revelation to the Noldor: wet and grey with chill winds off the sea and even the threat of snow, a certainty in Fingolfin’s heartland to the north. Vinyamar, right on the coast, got the brunt of the storms. Glorfindel loved the soft grey city, loved the white paths and the smell of the sea that crashed against the cliffs below, but he was the first to admit her winter face left a lot to be desired. 

It was a miserable day with rain threatening, but this had not deterred the Sindar, who ran a market at unpredictable intervals on the square overlooking the sea. There were always interesting items for sale, from new foods - well, new to the Noldor - to warm, heavy cloth, wood carvings and pottery. Glorfindel had been taught a lifelong dislike for the cold during the crossing over the Ice and had only braved the weather because it was almost his mother’s begetting day. She was often quiet and withdrawn these days, and he wanted to get her something pretty, something to distract her a little from her grief. 

He was browsing a table of little sculptures when he heard a crash and raised voices. After a quick look around, he saw the upset involved men from his House – his men now, he still had to keep reminding himself of that. A pair of them stood in front of one of the more organised stalls, a wood frame hung with hides to keep off the threatening rain. Heads had turned to watch and a few of the Sindar were ambling over with the non-deliberate deliberate look of men who scent trouble. He saw, because it was now his job to see such things, that there were Noldor doing likewise. 

The stall owner was short, angry, and spoke the fastest Sindarin Glorfindel had ever heard. Nehton, a middling warrior as far as he could recall, was stepping forward, about to get aggressive, and that was likely to lead to all kinds of trouble.

“All right, what’s going on here?” he asked, keeping his voice short and firm the way his father had when he wasn’t in the mood for arguments.

Nehton made a shrugging motion, not turning, but his companion recognized Glorfindel and grabbed his arm, spinning him round. “My lord,” he said hastily, stepping back so they were standing together facing him. “No trouble, my lord. Just this one, going off the way they do.”

“Why?” Glorfindel asked.

There was silence. Even the Sinda was quiet, waiting to see what happened. Finally, Nehton cleared his throat. “Something got knocked over, my lord. An accident. Not worth all this fuss.”

Glorfindel glanced down, saw the coloured shards lying on the beaten earth, and pointed. After a moment Nehton’s companion understood and knelt to collect them together and pick them up. 

Only when he was done did Glorfindel turn to the stall holder. “How much?” he asked succinctly.

The stall holder had long, very black hair worn loose as the Sindar preferred and the most unlikely amber coloured eyes. Very angry eyes. “Four pearls,” he said equally shortly just as Glorfindel was about to try and rephrase his uncertain Sindarin. 

Seed pearls were the main currency on the Hither Shore, much to the surprise of the Noldor who were accustomed to pay for very little and mainly used barter or else offered their creations freely. Nothing was free in Nevrast, and everyone had got used to it very fast, from royalty downward. Four pearls, however, was an exorbitant price for what seemed to have been a small and rather ordinary jug. Glorfindel looked at the Sinda. Amber eyes looked back levelly. 

He sighed, turned to Nehton. “Six pearls should be adequate,” he said. As Nehton was about to object he added, “Three as the price and a further three for embarrassing our House. Thank you.”

He waited, watching the money exchange hands and the pair go off, straight backed with outrage. By now a small crowd had formed but lost interest once they saw there would be no fight and things had been sorted out – correctly, if you were Sindar, or by one of Turgon’s lords, if you were Noldor, and so what could be done about it? People drifted back to what they had been doing, leaving Glorfindel alone with the Sinda. Clearing his throat, he looked around.

The stall was filled with pottery. Not the style Glorfindel had grown up with, the elegant bowls and long stemmed jugs with intricate black outlines on red ochre or the softly glazed black with white figures. Sindarin work was a new, alien thing to Noldor eyes, with swirls of bright colour, abstract designs, sparkly sheen, even a form of glazing that left cracks and lines and changed the colours to something unique to each item. Of the many differences between Noldor and Sindar that had grown up during the time of their separation, few were more startling than the arts.

While he looked around, the stall holder took the broken fragments from the counter where they had been left and dumped them unceremoniously into a wicker basket in a corner. “Something always gets broken,” he said wryly. “It could have been worse.” He spoke slowly and distinctly now, accommodating Glorfindel’s grasp of the new tongue. “Perhaps I can show you something before the weather gets worse? I thought of packing up – there’s a storm brewing.”

As though for emphasis, a rumble of thunder rattled ominously. Glorfindel was glad he had stuck with the Sindarin lessons, even a few moons previous he would only have got the bare gist of what was said. “I’m not sure – I wanted something for my mother, for her begetting day…?”

“Something cheerful perhaps?” The elf turned in a half circle and settled on a bowl adored with bright flowers in primary colours. Glorfindel just managed not to wince.

“A bit more subdued?” he suggested hastily. The Sinda looked from him to the bowl in surprise. “My father passed to the Halls just recently,” Glorfindel added hesitantly, feeling an explanation was due. “I’m not sure she’s ready for anything too bright and happy?”

Thunder crashed again and then, as though the sky had opened, the rain came down in a straight torrent, sending people shouting and running for shelter. The elf dashed past him and began grabbing display items off the counter at the entrance. Glorfindel hastened to help him. Together they carried everything to the back that was close enough to the stall entrance to get soaked and pulled a heavy skin down, enclosing them in warm gloom. 

The elf went to the back and pulled out a cloak which he spread on the ground and sat down on. After a moment Glorfindel took the space beside him. There was no point in leaving, the rain sounded heavy enough to drown a horse.

“Arda, what a mess. I still can’t get used to how fast the weather can change here,” he said ruefully. “I was surprised there was a market at all today.”

“Well, it might have stayed off till later.” The elf was more amused than upset by the turn of events. “And most of us managed at least some sales. I’ll have to wait for it to ease off before I pack up and go. The paint on a few of these isn't baked, it might not survive a wetting. That is strange though – did you not get sudden storms over there?”

He gestured towards the sea to define ‘over there’, although Aman was not strictly opposite Vinyamar. Now there were no distractions Glorfindel could notice he wore a short coat made from a thick, unfamiliar fabric and that his hair when he moved smelt faintly of lavender. 

“Not really, no. It’s more predictable and never quite this heavy. There’s a lot we’re still getting used to – your winters mainly. Ours were a lot milder, mainly a rest season for nature except in the far north. Though after the Ice, as long as there’s shelter and solid ground under your feet, it’s not too bad.”

The Sinda nodded, his eyes sparkling in the gloom. “You truly walked across the World Ice to reach here?” he asked. “My mother always says you can’t really have, that nothing can live there. How she would know, I can’t imagine.” He had an appealing smile, even in that half-light.

“We walked, yes,” Glorfindel said. “And she’s at least half right, nothing right-minded and good can live there for long. Many of us didn’t.”

“Your father?” asked the elf gently.

Glorfindel hesitated. He was used to people knowing what had happened to the original Lord of the Golden Flower; the need to explain was a new thing. “Not on the Ice, no, though it killed my brother and my cousin Elenwë. My father took a bolt in the leg during one of the early skirmishes. The bolt was poisoned and the healers realised it too late – his wound seemed to be healing, but his body failed…”

He picked up a little jar from the hastily stacked objects next to him, something to hold, to ground himself while he spoke about it and indirectly about his unlooked-for and still uneasy promotion. The jar had a rabbit etched on it in such a bright blue he could see it even in the reduced light – the Sindar loved colour. He was learning to ride the pain, accept it as part of living, but it was still very close and raw. 

“Your healers, they do not like to listen to ours,” the Sinda said quietly. “They forget how long we have had to face these things. We know their poisons. How terrible for your mother. And now she has only you?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “No, I have a young sister too. I think that’s what keeps her alive.”

“You brought families over, not like the first ones who came,” his companion said thoughtfully. “You meant to settle here, yes? Not just fight the Darkness?”

The rain was easing but it was oddly comfortable sitting here in the gloom, talking with this stranger who made him feel more at ease than the many who sought him out now he was lord of his House. He also had a smoky voice that was very easy to listen to. “Many of us wanted open spaces and freedom, yes. Our king, Turgon, has his daughter with him – she and my sister are of an age. His wife is the cousin we lost during the Crossing.”

“Ah.” The elf straightened up, moving slightly away from him. “I’m sorry, lord. I had no idea…” He used the Quenya word for lord. Glorfindel had a sudden realisation of how hard his kind might be insisting on their own terms, their own ways, with these people. 

“I’m not a lord right now,” Glorfindel heard himself say. “Just a son looking for a gift for his mother, caught out in the rain and lucky enough to find good company. My name is Glorfindel – of the House of the Golden Flower, as were the men who broke your jug. But no title is necessary here.”

The Sinda thought about it, then smiled. “And my name is Erestor, indirect kin to the Lord of the Falas through my mother, though not close enough that a title would ever apply.” He held out his hand, palm up, the beginning of a peculiar series of hand clasps Glorfindel had seen the Sindar use in greeting before. 

He placed his hand over Erestor’s, laughing now. “I haven’t a clue how to do this,” he admitted. “That’s all I know.”

Erestor shuffled round to face him, legs crossed, his smile widening. “Oh but this is almost as important as learning to predict the weather,” he insisted. He angled their palms slightly, straightened Glorfindel’s fingers with his free hand. “Watch. I’ll teach you.”

“Forecasting the weather too?” Glorfindel joked, watching carefully as his hand was moved, folded into a fist, straightened, turned around.

He received a gleam of amusement from under long dark lashes. “The weather might take a little longer. But if you’d like, I’ll be happy to try.”


End file.
